


Wake Up

by LuxeApocalypse



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Use, Frottage, Future Fic, Kissing, Late Night Conversations, Loneliness, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Near Future, Oral Sex, Past Drug Use, References to Drugs, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sex, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-07 09:48:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11056443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuxeApocalypse/pseuds/LuxeApocalypse
Summary: Post-events of season 3, Ed and Oswald have established an uneasy truce.  Ed is coming to terms with his feelings for Oswald, yet Oswald remains frustratingly indifferent.  This story will have three chapters.





	1. In Every Dream Home A Heartache

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: I've made a couple of assumptions / references as to what might happen at the end of season 3B. If it doesn't pan out that way, so be it!
> 
> My eternal gratitude goes to the wonderful hailescapism for her mad beta-ing skills and wise counsel, and the fabulous vickyvoltaire for being patient while I finished this!
> 
> The title of this chapter comes from the track "In Every Dream Home A Heartache" by Roxy Music, from the 1973 album For Your Pleasure.

Things had changed; this was something Edward Nygma couldn't deny. It was true that a sort of muted conviviality endured between Oswald and himself; a fleeting acknowledgement of what they'd been and had before. Sometimes a faint echo of sentiment ran through it, or at least it seemed that way. Sometimes it felt like they were simply paying dutiful homage to something that had died.  And yet … the very fact they acknowledged it at all, however briefly, suggested that whatever it was they'd had, it was good.

But it wasn't here with them, not now. Perhaps it would never be again.

In the aftermath of their provisional truce, there was a line that Oswald, for his part, seemed unwilling to cross. No more invitations to stay up late, just the two of them; no nightly _tetes-a-tetes_ in that ornate, candlelit manor over bottles of Shiraz or Pinot Noir, old recordings of the _Barcarolle_ from _Les Contes d'Hoffmann_ or the _Habanera_ from _Carmen_ crackling away on Gertrud's ancient gramophone.

Ed knew better than to expect that things should go back to the way they were. He wasn't sure that was what _he_ wanted either, but still … despite himself, he searched for it, each and every time their meetings drew to a close.  That Oswald's eyes would rest on him and only him, just a fraction of a second longer than for the others; that he would nod towards Ed in a gesture loaded with hidden meaning, the cue for them to convene in the library so they could drink fine wines, listen to opera and put the world to rights like in the old days.

Instead, Oswald would look at each of them around the table with equal force – Freeze, Firefly, Ivy, Ed, the others - thank them for their company, and bid them good night. He'd pull himself up with a flourish, grab his cane, straighten his tie, and stagger off to bed without looking back. Sometimes Ivy would spring up to help him on his way. Occasionally he'd accept her assistance; other times he'd put up a hand in refusal.

Then Olga would materialize from the periphery to escort the gathering to their rooms, with the exception of Ed, who was summarily shown to the door. His old room had been taken by Bridgit, and even though there were other rooms available, he hadn't been offered one.

In times of bitterness, he'd convince himself he didn't _want_ to stay overnight. Oswald had offered him the services of his driver, but Ed didn't quite trust the man, so he always phoned for a cab instead. It was risky, for sure, but it was better than walking the five miles back to the city in the deadest part of early morning. He'd sink back into the velvety womb of the backseat, watching the rippling trees lining either side of the road, large and looming.

********

In the immediate aftermath of Oswald's supposed death at his hands, Ed had undergone an abrupt, visceral reaction to all things antiquated, all things baroque, all things _Oswald._ He grew to despise the manor's overlarded, dated décor; the dampness and the dark. He wanted clean lines, sharpness, minimalism. Something high above the city; a penthouse perhaps, modern and clean, where the hands of the water and earth below could not touch him.

Something, in other words, befitting a man about to be reborn as an almost-God.

But Oswald … Oswald _persisted_ , even in death. He'd always liked to boast about his reach; Ed, for his part, had never once anticipated that it would stretch beyond the grave, spreading like tendrils of damp across the sepia-tinted walls of the manor. Almost as if the house, shorn of its notorious lord, had begun to curl up on itself and die. It dawned on Ed that he needed some facsimile, some shade of Oswald to ground him, to guide him, even as he limited him.

Within days, Ed found himself in a nightclub with muted, sickly lighting, standing before a dead-eyed woman with arcane bracelets spiraling up her arms. She disappeared into a backroom, re-emerging in the company of a man with a magic box, a garish tin containing a drug so new it didn't have a street name yet. The effects were said to be similar to a combination of methamphetamine and DMT; in other words, instant paranoia on tap.

_Good_ , Ed pondered. _This way, he will_ _come._

The drug came in the form of tablets that Ed would swallow whole or crush, snorting the debris through a rolled-up hundred-dollar bill. The effects proved slow to emerge. Two edgy, twitchy, sleepless nights passed before Oswald, or rather, his shade, finally decided to grace Ed with his presence. It was true that Ed had sensed him prior to this, or at least thought he did; he'd be a streak of light in the corner of Ed's eye, disappearing through a door; a melting shadow at the end of the corridor, a dripping sound amplified by the hollow acoustics of the house.  On the third night, still unable to sleep, he'd heard something that sounded like limping footsteps, but was probably rats or the banging of a broken pipe, distorted through the wayward effects of the drug.

He was on the verge of grabbing the pills and flushing them away – _useless things!_  - when Oswald stormed in as if pursued by flaming hounds; drenched in sea-wrack and slime, shaking marine life from his sleeves and coat-tails; _glaring_ at Ed like he was channeling a current straight from hell.

A few weeks and innumerable - if somewhat trying - visitations from Oswald later, Ed found himself back at the nightclub where the man with the box upped the ante. Ed was exhausted; Oswald viewed through the hallucinogenic haze was _too much._   He _drained_ Ed.  He went deep, twisting Ed's mind, firing up his doubts, telling him he was “nothing” without him. Dismantling him, piece by piece, at every single turn.

The man grinned, wry and knowing, commiserating with Ed over the sleepless nights, the excruciating comedowns, the anxiety. He remarked on the dark circles under Ed's eyes, saying he could “sort that out” by showing Ed how to shoot up; explaining how the rush was _so much better_ that way, like an orgasm; and while he was at it, didn't he want to try a little H “to take the edge off?”

“No, thank you,” Ed replied crisply, noting that the guy looked like a pincushion.

Then after a pause: “...Yes, okay. But no needles, please.”

A cab ride back to the manor and two lines of Afghan heroin later, Ed felt like he'd been sucked into a vortex, black wings beating inside his skull. Then came the most brutal sickness he'd ever known; he spent what seemed like hours over the toilet retching into nothingness, before it subsided and he was left in a state of deep tranquility where Ghost-Oswald, mercifully, left him in peace. But as he came around to a backdrop of thrumming nausea, he understood that what had happened had been too good to be true; there was a part of him, perversely, that had actually _liked_ the violent, glittering immediacy of the Oswald wrought by the nameless drug.  Cursing his stupidity, he grasped for the foil wrap on the nightstand, staggered to the bathroom, and emptied the remaining contents down the toilet. Then he swallowed two pills of the original drug to lift him back up.

Thirty minutes and Oswald was there again, leaning against a bedpost, positively _ecstatic_ with malice. “Who'd have thought it. Edward Nygma: legend in his own mind, murderer, traitor. I presume we can now add “junkie” to your considerable list of accomplishments. _Pathetic.”_

“Not _now,_ Oswald,” Ed groaned, curled in a fetal position on his former friend's bed, consumed by sweaty misery.   _God,_ he wanted nothing more than to retch. Or another little hit, just one. _Just to take the edge off_ , as the man in the club had said. But no ... that wasn't true either. Ghost-Oswald leaned forward, slamming his hands on the edge of the bed, glowering at Ed.

“I would _never_ have allowed you to do this to yourself!” he snarled. “And as for the contemptible bastard who sold you this … this _filth,_ I'd … I'd have had him gutted like a _fish!”_

“Don't _you_ start,” Ed grumbled. “ _You_ were responsible for moving more of that “filth” through this city than...”

“... You're a _disgrace_ , Edward Nygma! Good day!”

“If you're so concerned,” yelled Ed, “why can't you come back and stop me!”

Then the terrible light subsided, and Oswald faded away.

Although Ed continued to use the nameless drug for a further two weeks, he never diverted again. In the aftermath of an especially disconcerting hallucination involving Oswald dressed in top hat and tails, lustfully crooning contemporary soul while drenched in a hellish crimson glow, he resolved to do away with the pills; to dispose of Oswald's nagging, persistent specter once and for all. For sure, he had come to understand that he still cared about the man; more than he realized, in fact. But nothing could be done. Oswald was gone. Oswald wasn't _enough_ any more.

_I have to be enough for myself_ ,  Ed thought.

He was the Riddler. He was a free man.

Everything would be okay now.  

Better than that, in fact: everything would be _glorious._

The subsequent journey proved more … _interesting_ than he could ever imagine.


	2. Just Another High

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting between Ed and Oswald. Things are hashed out. Conclusions are reached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something happens in this chapter that's inspired by something Alfred did in 3x19!
> 
> Once again, huge thanks to hailescapism for beta and advice.

Usually there was no point in trying to catch Oswald after meetings, since he always made sure to leave first before anyone could divert his attention. Then there was the question of the green-fingered girl who never seemed to be far from Oswald's side; Ivy, who had clearly supplanted Ed in the role of Oswald's lieutenant. She was always hovering, here or thereabouts, and though she _seemed_ personable enough, albeit somewhat immature, she also gave off a distinct “do _not_ fuck with him” aura.

Yet all it had taken, in the end, was a request from Ed to speak to Oswald "privately", delivered in his most assured voice, just as Oswald was about to bring that week's meeting to a close.

Indeed, a fleeting moment of tension had zipped through the assembly, where fingers brushed against weapons and the air hung thick with the prospect of Ed being immolated, encased in ice, or stunned by exotic perfume before being disposed of in some other unfortunate manner. Oswald nonetheless proceeded to dismiss the gathering with a nonchalant assurance.  The group beat a cautious retreat, Ivy pausing on the stairs to look back quizzically at Oswald, signalling _I'm here if you need me._   Oswald responded with a mouthed  _it's fine;_   Ivy nodded and disappeared upstairs with the others, the ever-present Olga bringing up the rear with a tray bearing a frappe for Victor, fennel tea for Ivy and a hot malted for Bridgit.

 _So yes,_ Ed thought, back in the moment. _It was easy_.

Perhaps _too_ easy.

Oswald turned back to Ed, beaming, convivial.

“Do sit down, Ed.”  He gestured to a chair.

Ed's eyes narrowed as he took a seat.  “You're not … uncomfortable with this.”

“Not at all.” Oswald smiled, his tone pleasant enough. “This _is_ my house, after all.” Settling down, he opened the wine decanter on the table. “A man should feel safe in his own home, should he not? Wine?”

Ed nodded as Oswald poured and pushed a glass over towards him. _Of course_ the place would be rigged with defenses from top to bottom, Ed mused. Anything less, and he would have been profoundly disappointed. Even the plants – Ivy's handiwork, a new addition – loomed menacingly in the half-light, almost sentient-seeming.

“Thank you.” Ed picked up the glass and took a guarded sip, peering at Oswald over the rim.

“So,” said Oswald, “what do you wish to talk about?”

Ed put down his glass. “I'm ... I'm glad we're able to work together again, Oswald.”

“That's good.”

“Are _you?_   Glad, I mean.”

“It works for me.  You need a napkin, by the way.” Oswald pulled the handkerchief out of his breast pocket and handed it to Ed.  Ed wiped his upper lip, scrunching the handkerchief in his fist, a little too tightly; a little too tense.

“When you came back,” Ed began after a pause, “I … I was shocked, yes.  Also relieved, although I couldn't let you see it.  Still, after everything that's happened since that time, I'd ... I'd like to think that we're now ... _even._ ”

Oswald raised an eyebrow. “Even _,_ you say.”

“It's my belief that the two of us were in a place of weakness before,” Ed  pressed, a touch too urgently.  “I needed a mentor and a friend. As for _y_ _ou_ … you needed somebody to care about you. You'd lost your mother, then your father, within the space of a year.  The long and short of it is this” - Ed exhaled heavily - “we both _needed_ something, Oswald.  And we found it, however temporarily.  But our relationship wasn't built on a foundation of strength; of _equality._ That's why we lost.  And that's why ...”

“... I remember the night you met Isabella,” Oswald interjected. “I sat here, at this very table, and I waited, and waited, and waited some more. It took twelve hours for you to show.  And then everything changed.”

 Oswald's smile never flickered; his tone remained light. Trivializing, even.   Either Oswald had morphed into the greatest actor the world had ever seen, or this impassive display was real and true.  There was a hardness to Oswald now; something he'd tried gamely to project in the past with limited success, his emotions floating far too close to the surface to make it stick.  Ed recalled Oswald's hair-trigger tantrums, how incredibly _trying_ they were; so much that he'd constantly had to remind himself that the man was a perfectionist; temperamental, like an artist, _like himself;_ that this was the price one paid for whirling in the orbit of greatness.  But for now, it seemed like Oswald didn't particularly _care_ enough to argue anymore. It was somewhat … unsettling, all told.

“Of course, _she_ turned out to be a lie,” Oswald continued, draining his glass.

“Yes,” echoed Ed with a sigh. “She turned out to be a lie.”

“Not that things would have worked out between you and I,” Oswald continued, cheerfully. “Even if they had gone differently.” He leaned forward just a notch. “We are who we are, Ed. We were destined to end up at the docks. Wouldn't you say?”

Ed looked down.

“Perhaps. Perhaps you had to die in order for me to become myself. But _..._ as you said so _emphatically_ in that cell”- he lifted his head, mouth twitching into a smile - “you _didn't_ die, and I'm still the Riddler.”

Oswald shook his head. “We're always going to be alone, Ed. That's the nature of our business. No friends in this game.”

“No friends.” Ed smiled tightly. Perhaps Oswald was right, and it was never going to work. Perhaps it wasn't supposed to work, whatever 'it' was. And yet ...

Ed cleared his throat. “Do you remember the tale of the Gordian knot?”

“In Arkham, yes.” The corner of Oswald's mouth twitched upwards, and Ed was touched, briefly, by the way his former friend's eyes softened just a notch, as if he had taken that particular exchange off a shelf, just to hold it in his hands and remember what it was like.

“About details as distraction,” Ed pressed on. “Everything that happened between us … it's a knot. It's a _mess._ The two of us made mistakes that we cannot walk back easily, if at all. But ...”

“But what?”

“... But they're _details_ , Oswald. I'm not saying we _can_ bypass them, but we can at least grant ourselves the opportunity to do so.  What I was saying before, about our being even … about our being _equal_ now, we're in a better position to rebuild from that, to ...”

“Details, you say,” Oswald half-laughed, half-scoffed, shaking his head. _“Details.”_ He glowered at Ed, his voice an escalating snarl. “I seem to recall you pumping a bullet into my gut and pushing me into filthy, ice-cold water. Which in turn” - he slammed his hands against the table - “led to the _indignity_ of being force-fed nettle soup and mugwort tea for weeks on end by a thirteen-year-old!”  He sank into his chair, still fuming. “That's a little bit more than just _'details',_ _Ed!_ ”

“I thought you were fond of Ivy.”

“ _That's not the point!”_

“Perhaps 'details' was too flippant a word”, continued Ed. “And I wouldn't expect you to ignore what I did to you. It's there. It can't be undone. Nor can what you did to Isabella.”

The corner of Oswald's mouth twitched into a satisfied half-smile. “Who didn't actually exist, as you _might_ recall.”

“Right. But you didn't know that at the time. You could have had her followed first. Do you honestly think I would have killed you for _saving_ me?”

Oswald's smile snagged just a notch. “A mistake, for certain.”

Ed coughed. “When I still believed you dead ... while trying to find _myself_ , I realized that a part of me was trying to find _you._ Without going into specifics, I ...”

Oswald waved a dismissive hand. “Edward, _stop_. It's better this way. We're not spiraling; we're not itching to kill each other anymore, and that's enough.  Really, it's getting late, we should...”

“... I understood that I cared about you still; understood it too late. And ... and I am sorry for pretending otherwise, Oswald. I'm sorry for convincing _myself_ that I did not care about you. I am truly sorry.”

“Let that be your penance, then,” declared Oswald, closing up again, smile failing to reach his eyes.  “Just as your attempt on my life at the docks, your wresting away of my empire - a worthy attempt, albeit a futile one! - was mine.”  He raised his glass. “To the happy medium!”

“Quite,” Ed intoned, and took a distracted sip. “Are you _happy_ , Oswald?”

“Of course not.” Oswald leaned forward, cradling his glass, scoffing as if happiness were something to be wiped from the bottom of his shoe. “A wise man is never satisfied. Let's face it, Ed … after happiness, what else is there? _Death?_ And that's one appointment I _don't_ intend to keep for a _very_ long time, thank you very much. You should know _that_ only too well.” He knocked back his wine.

Ed frowned. “So lack of satisfaction gives you reason to live.  That … doesn't make complete sense to me.”

Oswald's jaw tightened.  “It's how I've always lived. For the most part. And it's how I'll _continue_ to live”. He fixed Edward with an intense gaze. “Was I ever driven by the prospect of happiness? Yes, for a moment. And, well ... we _both_ know what happened the second I allowed myself that privilege, don't we?”

 _And there it is,_ thought Ed.  The faintest hint of bitterness; of residual feeling. Regardless, Ed had to admit that Oswald was at least partially correct. Oswald had lived on his wits and his wiles since he was a boy. In later years he'd known luxury, yes, but never _comfort._

 _This is not going to be easy_ , Ed thought.

If he was going to make Oswald _see_ , he had to swallow his pride. It was shameful, and it prickled Ed, but it was as though he was being guided by something stronger than shame, something that bore him up above the fray and emboldened him, carried him forth. He reached across the table, turning his palm upwards, a gesture of acquiescence.

Then he turned his hand again, laying it over Oswald's own.

Oswald's reaction was instantaneous, jerking backwards as if stung; eyes blazing, jaw trembling, mouth twitching. He tried to wrest his hand free, but Ed increased the pressure, gripping his wrist, never taking his eyes off him, pinning Oswald to the spot.

“ _Unhand me at once!_ _”_ Oswald hissed. _“Or I'll ...”_

_“No.”_

In a movement so blindingly fast Ed had no chance to react, Oswald wrenched a knife out of his pocket and brought it within millimeters of Ed's hand.  The knife hovered there, trembling, the tip of the blade barely scratching the skin's surface; Oswald's knuckles blanching from the sheer _force_ of his grip on the handle.

The two of them sat in stalemate, open-mouthed, eyes locked, unable to look away, the only sound the rise and fall of their breathing; the susurration of the wind-whipped trees outside the French windows; the room thick with fear, excitement and all of the things they should have said to one another, so long ago; _too_ long ago.

Finally, painstakingly, Ed broke the spell.

“Altars were built for me,” he began in a low voice, “yet no tribute is afforded me; instead, I pay. What am I?”

“I don't … I ...” Oswald's words fractured and lapsed.

“Sacrifice,” Ed spat, eyes wild, imploring.  “Do it _,”_ he commanded, rasping. _“Do it._ _Now!_ ”

With an anguished yell, Oswald wrenched the knife up – Ed closed his eyes, bracing himself for the agonizing rip of blade through ligaments and flesh - and plunged it into the table, less than a centimeter from where their hands remained joined; the resulting white-noise clatter ricocheting around the room, stretching into forever.

Deflated, defeated, Oswald slumped, head in his free hand, gasping.

Finally, Ed released him, drawing his own hand back slowly across the table.

Hauling himself up, visibly shaken, Oswald grabbed his cane. “I'm bringing this meeting to a close. _Good evening!”_   He stabilized himself with a snort. “You know where the door is.   _See yourself out._ ”

He turned on his heel and hobbled away, not glancing back.

“ _Don't you dare leave me!_ _”_ Ed yelled suddenly, bolting up.

In the doorway, Oswald froze.

“... _Please._ ” Ed's voice cracked, struck through with a note of desperation. He noticed Oswald's heaving shoulders; the way his hand trembled atop the handle of his cane; heard the sound of air sucked through teeth; the exhale that followed, reminiscent of a sob.

“Please,” Ed repeated a second time, voice low and soft now, but no less sincere.

Regaining his composure, Oswald turned around to face Ed, the glitter of tears on his lashes.

“Ed, why … why can't you just _go away_? _”_

“Because I don't want to.”

 _And because_ you _don't want me to_. _I know that now._

Slowly, Ed rose from his chair and walked towards Oswald, the heels of his shoes making a deft clicking sound against the antiquated, cracked tiling.

They stood before each other, heads bowed, Ed moving his hand to cup Oswald's chin, lingering there, lifting his head so their eyes met once more.

Tentatively, he stroked Oswald's face with his thumb, Oswald apparently fighting the compulsion to just _lean_ into Ed's caresses, before finally giving in, nuzzling his cheek against Ed's hand, shaking his head, eyes closing, then spilling over.

“Ed …” he whispered, “ _we can never be friends again_.”

Ed's smile was warm.

“I wasn't saying we should be _friends._ ”

Oswald bit his lip and looked up. “Then what … what _are_ you saying?”

“ _This.”_

Ed lowered his head to brush his lips against Oswald's for the briefest and sweetest of moments. He tasted wine; tears, heat. Betrayed by need, the final betrayal, Oswald's lips parted, allowing Ed access, a delicate spear-tip of tongue against his own.

Oswald looked up, eyes misting over, searching Ed's face.

“Ed?”

“Yes?”

“ _Stay .”_

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter comes from " Just Another High" by Roxy Music, from the 1975 Siren album.


	3. Out of the Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed and Oswald finally let the good things happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're all feeling a little rattled by the finale spoilers that have been emerging, so it might be best to consider this story slight AU from now on (isn't all fanfic AU to an extent anyway?) Still, I wanted to finish this story for all of you, so here is the final part. Thank you all for reading, and for your kind and generous comments and kudos. 
> 
> Thank you to hailescapism, as always, for her sterling advice, and vickyvoltaire for her encouragement and uplifting sassiness.

When they entered the bedroom, they were aggressive, demanding, all searching hands and lips. Then gentleness took over as they moved towards the bed and disrobed one another, seeking approval, scoring every new inch of exposed flesh with fingertips, lips and teeth.

Soon Ed lay beside Oswald, propped up on an elbow, gazing down at the man who had changed so much for him, for good or ill. All that mattered was the two of them here, in this room, on this bed; the final port of call at the end of a lengthy and arduous road, almost as if fate had _wanted_ them to fight for this.

“I miss you,” Ed whispered, fingers dancing soft across Oswald's face; tracing his brow, fluttering over his cheek, then moving to brush lightly across his neck and chest. Oswald gazed back, eyes soft and glistening, opening to Ed as they had done so many times in the past, before everything had gone to hell for the two of them. _I should have realised,_ thought Ed. _I should have seen it then. I should have seen it in myself, too._ But he had never considered men an option.   He'd always been _so_ single-minded about things, after all.

It simply hadn't occurred to him that the looks Oswald used to give him – the looks that had tormented Ed's recollections during the height of their enmity, the look that Oswald was giving him _now –_ signified anything other than affection and respect for a loyal colleague and friend. The details of Oswald's life, as Ed had hitherto perceived them, suggested a profound disinterest in matters of the heart.  But for now,  Oswald's hard edge had melted away; he smiled up at Ed, reaching up to caress his shoulder. Their fingers met and entwined, Ed lifting Oswald's hand to place a soft kiss there, feather-light.

Then Oswald sat up, gathering himself together, holding Ed's gaze, _daring_ him to make a move. Ed kneeled before him, running the tips of his fingers along the inside of Oswald's spread thighs, never taking his eyes off him. He grasped the back of Oswald's neck with one hand, pulling him forward to kiss him deeply, ardently, feeling Oswald groan low in his throat while his free hand pushed up and under to stroke along the underside of Oswald's cock. Ed laughed softly against Oswald's mouth as he wrapped his fingers around the base of Oswald's hardening cock, moving up and down, light at first then firm and steady; Oswald threw back his head with a sharp gasp, Ed going with him, sucking and biting gently on Oswald's lips, placing kisses at the corners of his mouth.

Then Ed pulled away, kissing a wet trail down Oswald's chest and stomach. Oswald leaned back on his elbows, his breathing shallow and expectant, eyes half-shuttered and smouldering like dull embers, face flushed and hot. With a brush of his hand, Ed gently nudged Oswald's legs apart, lowering himself to nibble along the inside of his thighs, kissing, nipping, making Oswald twitch and gasp. He kneeled over him, rearing, legs apart, palming his own cock.

He bent to taste Oswald, experimentally at first; swirling the tip of his tongue around the head, tasting precum, salt, and musk before enveloping him in his mouth, drawing from Oswald a choked cry that segued into low, incoherent moans. Oswald surrendered, fucking up into Ed's mouth, arrhythmic and wanton; Ed grasping his hips forcefully, digging his nails into the pallid flesh of Oswald's ass as he devoured him, rubbing his flattened tongue up and down Oswald's shaft, staring at Oswald's disbelieving, exhilarated face, unraveling him with every lick.

Then Ed reared up again, grabbing Oswald's wrists to pin them down behind his head; for a few brief moments they stared at one another, panting. Increasing the pressure of one hand on Oswald's wrist, he freed the other to sheathe Oswald's cock, giving it a few languid strokes before drawing a finger across Oswald's bottom lip, a cue for Oswald to draw it into his mouth and suck.  Ed reached down below Oswald's balls, lingering at his perineum, before descending further so that his finger rested at the opening of Oswald's ass. He paused for a second, expression saying _do you want this,_ Oswald signifying a decisive _yes._

 Jaw clenched with concentration, holding Oswald with his gaze, Ed pushed under and up to tease the crack, circumnavigating the entrance before carefully pushing the wet tip of his finger inside. Oswald inhaled sharply, tensing, then surrendered and surged, trying to force himself onto the finger. Ed pushed further, alighting on the right place. That was the moment Oswald unravelled, arching off the bed and wailing as Ed probed and rubbed gently, increasing the pressure.

“F...fuck, Ed,” he moaned, dismantled, his words a shattered chain. “No one … no one _ever_ ...”

“ _Shh._ This is for you.” Ed lowered his head to take Oswald's nipple between his lips, worrying it with his tongue, still pushing into Oswald, stroking his other nipple with the fingers of his unencumbered hand. Removing the finger from Oswald's ass to a light moan of protest, he lowered himself on top of Oswald, trailing kisses and bites along his shoulders and neck, thrusting slowly against him. Oswald responded in kind, fuelled by the press of hardness against hardness, and for a while there was nothing but heat and sweat and raw animal need and each other.

Oswald gathered himself, pushing Ed back, sitting up, needing _more_ , pulling Ed roughly to him, reaching up to caress Ed's face. “Show me what you do to yourself when you think of me.”

Ed reared up over Oswald, palming his own cock, Oswald glancing down breathlessly, then back up to catch Ed's gaze. Then Ed was taken by surprise as Oswald dragged him down and rolled him over onto his back. Oswald parted Ed's thighs, grinning, looking up at Ed, and soon it was Oswald's mouth, Oswald swallowing Ed to the hilt; hesitant at first, then greedily, sweeping down to flicker his tongue along his balls, then moving back to graze the tender, swollen flesh of his cock with his teeth. Ed gasped and tightened his grip on the bedstead. _Fuck,_ he thought; everything was tongue and wetness and friction; _everything_ was Oswald. An insolent finger breached his asshole, just as he had done to Oswald, and Ed, who had never believed in seeing stars, positively _keened_ at the feel of Oswald's fingertip probing against that secret place, the sensation merging with the warmth of Oswald's mouth as he rutted into it, almost breaking him apart. Oh _fuck,_ he _needed_ release, and _soon._ It was as if Oswald understood, for he let him go in that moment.

 _“Closer,”_ Ed huffed, grabbing Oswald to him.

They lay on their sides, facing each other; Ed wrapping a hand around their cocks, their faces feverish; eyes half-closed, smoldering with concentrated intensity, mouths open, almost touching. Ed felt Oswald reach up to caress his hair, hand moving to the back of his neck. They kissed again; falteringly at first, seeking to prolong the moment, tongues tracing lips before plunging ahead. As the heated, fervid slide of skin against skin increased, they groaned low into each other's mouths, emitting little mewls of craving. _“_ _Tell me you want me,”_ Ed rasped, voice raked with desperation and need. _“Tell me you want me like I want you.”_

“Fuck, m-more than anything, I ...”

 _He comes undone so beautifully,_ Ed thought, infused by everything Oswald was feeling, projected back a hundredfold; a seismic shift in his own heart, ardent and swollen with warmth. On the cusp of release, Oswald shuddered deep and low; throwing back his head, eyes rolling towards the heavens. He grasped at Ed, pulling him to his shoulder as he thrust into his hand, rough, chaotic, jagged; once, twice, three times, the two of them never closer.

“Oh God, Ed, I ...”

… And there it was; wetness across Ed's palm, up his stomach, dribbling through his fingers. Oswald slumped against his shoulder, spasming, Ed's free hand tangled in his hair, moving down to his back and rocking him gently as he rode out the shockwaves.

But Ed wasn't done; as he manoevered his hand to finish himself off, he felt Oswald gently push it aside and replace it with his own. He fixed Ed with a purposeful stare as his movements increased in frequency, Ed's own free hand joining the affray. It wasn't long before Ed followed Oswald in ecstasy; tensed and howling with raw need, Oswald's name a shattered cry on his lips, liquid warmth spreading between them.

Ed brushed salty, sticky fingers and thumb across Oswald's bottom lip; Oswald sucked them into his mouth, tonguing them hungrily. Withdrawing the digits, Ed covered Oswald's mouth with his own, tongues meshing, sharing each others' tastes.

It was incredible, Ed thought, to know each other like this; so intimately, all their tastes, all their needs, and to feel them all the way down and all the way up. They gazed at each other, drained and stunned, as their breathing steadied and pulses returned to normal. Fingers caressed lips, cheeks, and hair; Oswald wrapped his hand around Ed's and brought it to his lips.

Ed pulled Oswald closer as the latter's eyes fluttered closed. There was no resistance; having sought and won comfort, Oswald settled down into Ed's embrace, a light cough racking his chest.

Enclosed by night, they slumbered for a while.

*******.

Ed opened his eyes. It took several seconds for him to adjust to the dark without his glasses. For a moment, his whereabouts confused him. Then he felt the warm body next to him, chest falling and rising in sleep, and he suddenly felt … content, yes, but also a little fearful.

 _Perhaps I'd better go home,_ he thought.

He thought of his shoes, his clothes discarded in a tangle around the room, the logistics involved in gathering them up without his glasses - which were around somewhere, his sleep-fogged brain just couldn't remember where - and doing so without waking Oswald.

But that wouldn't be right either.

 _You coward,_ he thought. _You could at least tell him you're leaving._

“...Oswald.”

“Mm?” Oswald shifted slightly against his shoulder.

Ed touched his face. “Oswald, I'm going now.”

He felt Oswald stiffen in response.

“... If... if you want me to.”

Oswald shook his head drowsily.

Ed raised his eyebrows.

“You _don't_ want me to leave?”

Oswald's reply was a murmur, barely audible, trailing away.

“ _Nuh...wanna wake up with you.”_

He pulled Ed closer, submitting to sleep once more.

Lulled by satiety, the tranquil rhythm of Oswald's soft breathing and something resembling inner peace – or as close as a man like him was ever likely to get - Ed snuggled down and followed suit.

They'd had tonight, at least.

********

Perhaps they'd wake with the dawn, creased with shame at surrendering to each other so easily. Perhaps their wounded pride would reassert. Perhaps Oswald would fly into a rage; manhandling Ed down the stairs, booting him out the front door and hurling his clothing after him. Maybe Ed would recoil on realizing what he had allowed himself to do, make his excuses, and stroll down the sweeping staircase and out of that house forever, without looking back.

Or they would wake to kisses, to faces between thighs; driven to chase each other towards bliss. Maybe Oswald would ask Ed to go home … and to return with his suitcase, and whatever else he could forage from his peripatetic life.

 _Of course_ it was dangerous, _of course_ it was risky; but so were _they._

And in the final assessment, so was love.

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title comes from the track "Out of the Blue" by Roxy Music, from the 1974 album Country Life. (Was going to use "Love is the Drug" but that's too obvious, heh).


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